


To Be Found

by ifishouldvanish



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Asexuality, Character Study, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2018-12-21 05:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11937186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifishouldvanish/pseuds/ifishouldvanish
Summary: A character study exploring Rumplestiltskin as an aromantic and asexual character.





	1. Milah

“How is this?” Milah asked, holding out a length of the yarn she’d been working on.

Rumplestiltskin looked at his wife and smiled. “You’re getting much better.” He said, sitting beside her at the wheel. “You see how smooth it is?” He explained, tracing a finger along the thread. “You’ve a few lumps, but I can tell you’re getting your tension down, and that’ll only improve with more practice.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line for a moment, her eyes outside the window of the hovel. “Is it good enough to sell at the market, do you think?”

He inspected her work more closely and nodded. “Aye. I believe it passes muster.” Her eyes darted back to the yarn and a little smile crept across her face. Rumplestiltskin watched on as she began working the wheel again, seeming a little more sure of herself this time.

This was easy. He enjoyed it, even– sharing his craft and talent with another person, teaching and passing it on to them. Living in the shadow of his father’s reputation didn’t leave Rumplestiltskin with many things to feel proud of– but he was a gifted spinner, and in this area alone he could feel content with himself.

He knew their marriage was merely a thing of necessity– but they all were, weren't they? The women in his village needed husbands to provide for them, the men needed wives to rear their children– children who in the end would care for them both as they grew old and weak. 

After the news of their marriage had circulated throughout their small village, Rumplestiltskin had come to find that people treated him differently. Less the outcast, more the welcome member of society. He blended in, the neighbors greeted him with polite smiles instead of scowls, he was invited to games of cards when he stopped by the tavern. In this capacity, he enjoyed the role of husband. It made him feel useful, wanted, valid, and with purpose.

He didn’t care for the comments some of the other men made about Milah and his marriage bed, but he quickly learned to brush them off by feigning agreement with a chuckle and a nod. It was in this capacity that his role as husband felt like a weight on his chest. Something that smothered and gnawed at him. 

_ To not marry was to die poor and alone. _

That was the mantra he had repeated to himself from the moment Milah’s father introduced the two of them. No one wanted their daughter to marry the village coward– and while it hurt to be cast out as such, Rumplestiltskin found a certain comfort in it the knowledge that it was a repellant. People couldn’t leave him, give up on him, reject him as his father had, if they never bothered with him in the first place. However, as time went on– as he saw the younger people in his village being paired off– he knew a life by himself wasn’t sustainable. At least, not in this world. And so when the opportunity to court a woman presented itself, he told himself he had to take it.

He supposed Milah was an attractive enough woman, with her raven hair and blue eyes. But to his relief, she seemed about as enthusiastic about the match as he was. She smiled at the appropriate times, behaved the way a betrothed woman ought to, but otherwise, she kept her distance from him. He knew she didn’t care for him– marriages in their village weren’t about something as frivolous as love and passion, after all– and the fact comforted him in the same way that his reputation did. It was like a shield, a thick blanket, something that protected him and made him feel safe.

Despite that knowledge, the week leading up to their wedding, Rumplestiltskin hadn’t slept. He’d tossed and turned, visions of their wedding night clutching his heart in a vice grip, leaving him hands cold and clammy and his nerves tightly wound.

_ To not marry was to die poor and alone _ . 

He’d fulfil his role as husband, and with any luck, Milah would be with child and he’d be spared from having to repeat the act for the foreseeable future. Few were the men in his village who _ hadn't _ made some comments to him about the thrill of bedding one's wife, but to Rumplestiltskin, the thought loomed over him, clouding his thoughts and casting a shadow over his days. It seemed more like a chore he just wanted to get over with.

_ Perhaps you might enjoy it after all, _ he’d dared to hope.

And so on their wedding night, he’d played the part– his body a willing enough participant despite the apathy in his spirit.

He wasn't sure what he had expected, but he'd felt ill afterward. Not with a cough, or an ache, or a rash– but with a dry mouth, continued sleeplessness, and the constant replaying of the night's events in his mind's eye. He'd avoided Milah for weeks, unable to stomach the sight of her, and felt a unique sort of contempt for his own anatomy whenever he dressed, or bathed, or used the chamber pot. He supposed it was well enough though, as she seemed to keep her distance as well. Perhaps it was normal.

It was the spinning wheel that ended the stalemate. It was his duty to teach her, and she proved to be a fast learner. It was easy to ignore the distance he was putting between them when he was preoccupied with demonstrating the proper way to tease and comb the wool. Over time, he could muster a fondness–  _ an affection, almost– _ for the way she furrowed her brows as she plucked bits of grass and debris out of the wool, or the sharp exhale she did when she’d lose her momentum at the wheel, causing the thread to snap or become lumpy.

She was determined to learn and be good at something, and he admired that about her.

“I think I do better if I feed it in like this,” Milah said, pulling back on the wool with her right hand, rather than nudging it toward the orifice with her left. It wasn't the way he handled the wool himself, but her movements seemed far more fluid and graceful now than they did when she handled it the way he had taught her.

Rumplestiltskin nodded. “Aye. Whatever works best for you.”

“I think–” she glanced up at him and that was all it took for her to lose her rhythm.  _ “God dammit!”  _

He winced and darted his eyes back toward the bobbin, where the thread had snapped. The fifth time today.

“I can't do this.” Milah sighed, slouching her shoulders and dropping the wool into her lap. “Not like you.”

Rumplestiltskin stared at her blankly for a moment, the corners of his mouth pinched as he thought what to say to her. In truth, she was probably right. The chances of her ever being as proficient as he was were slim, but he did still believe she could get good _ enough. _

“You can't sell this.” She said. “I'm just wasting all of your wool.” She made an exasperated gesture at the bobbin and rolled her eyes. “Look at it– it’s rubbish!’

He looked and frowned. She'd been doing solid work, truly. But by now he knew her well enough to know how thin her patience was. How little it took for her to lose interest.

Whenever he grew discouraged as a boy, the spinsters who'd raised him would lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, or wrap him in a hug. Plant a kiss on the crown of his head to let him know that it was okay. But in  _ this _ context, the context of husband and wife, those gestures came with an added sentiment he didn't want to express, for he felt an inexplicable aversion to where they might lead.

He cleared his throat. “No, no. You're doing quite well.” He said. “You've much improved. Just... try to stay focused on the wheel. It'll be some time before you're able to carry a conversation and spin at the same time. Go on, try again.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay,” she exhaled, starting to feed the wool through again. She struggled to get it started– as she often did– and with each failed attempt, her movements became more hasty and erratic.

_ Let's take a break. _ The words were on the tip of his tongue as he watched her grow more and more frustrated. But this– spinning– was the only time he felt useful, the only time things between them felt somewhat right. He hated to end their lessons on a low note, because it left Milah in a sour mood, if not a morose one– and he never knew how to behave around her or make it better.

He learned quickly, the sort of things she might expect after he comforted her– a kiss, an embrace, a coupling before bed– and he wished to avoid them. He wouldn't be in the mood, and he could tell her heart was never in it, anyway. He knew she didn't love him, and it vexed him that she continued to try. After all, shouldn't she be relieved that her husband didn't make any demands of her body? But instead, she seemed to take offense. That it was due to some fault he'd found in her.

He supposed he had to give her credit, however. She was playing her part, still committed to her role as spouse in all the areas that he shied away from. In this way, he considered her a far stronger person than he ever was. No one in this village married for love, yet he seemed to be the only one who couldn't play the part anyway.

“Let me–” he said, reaching for the wool on her hands so he could get the thread started for her.

“I just can't do it. I don't know why, but I can't–”

“Because you're getting impatient.” He said bitterly, beginning to feel frustrated himself. He took a deep breath, refusing to let his emotions get the better of him. “We can work on this part later. Just focus on spinning and getting your tension right.”

She rolled her eyes and took the wool back from him once he'd gotten the thread started. “Sorry.”

“It's no matter.” He said, getting up and putting on a tight-lipped smile. “I… I'll see if the next batch of wool is dry yet.”

“I checked it this morning.” She muttered. “It's still wet.”

“Oh?” He frowned, feeling his heart sink in his chest. “Well, i-it's a nice day out. The sun might've helped, ye know?”

She shook her head and shrugged before starting the wheel again. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He was relieved to find that the wool was, though not completely dry, dry enough for him to start teasing. He would have an excuse to get away from her until she found her concentration again. Then they'd wrap things up, and she'd be in a well enough mood by then that he wouldn't have to concern himself with making her feel better.

He often felt as though he was walking on eggshells with Milah. He wanted their marriage to work. Wanted a family, children. But certain things didn't come naturally to him, and he wasn't sure he even wanted them to. Whatever distance there was between them, he'd created himself. Any attempts she'd made to close that distance, he'd pulled away from.

Marriage wasn't about love and happiness, though. It was about necessity. Perhaps he only needed more time. Perhaps he still could learn. Because the alternative would be to die poor and alone.


	2. Baelfire

Rumplestiltskin felt a strange mixture of emotions as he limped back to the hovel from the Jolly Roger.

_ Milah was gone. _

His wife. The mother of his child.

Taken by pirates, supposedly. But he knew the truth. She'd finally left him.

He'd known it was inevitable since the day he returned from the war, the word  _ coward _ no longer a shadow on his countenance, but a brand seared into his flesh. He could still recall with great clarity the moment he’d entered the hovel, when the look on her face finally made its transition from tolerance to disgust. But then there, cradled in her arms, was their son.

_ Baelfire. _ A good name. A strong name. And he was so, so beautiful. It amazed him, to think that someone as pathetic as he could have had a hand in creating something so precious, so perfect. That for all the cold and distance between him and Milah, he could look at their son and immediately feel so much love for him.

Being a husband was a job he'd never felt qualified for, but being a father? It felt like something he was  _ born _ to do. His own father had been the drunk, the cheat, the coward who abandoned his child. But Rumplestiltskin would be none of those things. His son wouldn't know shame and abandonment. His son would know nothing but love, love, love.

And what an exciting thing it was! To love and be loved back. To his own father, he'd been a disappointment. To the spinsters, a burden. But to his son? To Baelfire? He was _ papa. _

A lifetime he'd spent, never feeling like he was enough. Never feeling like he fit the mold of what it meant to be a man.  _ When you have your first drink. When you take your first woman to bed. _ But none of those things proved to be true. Not until there was his Baelfire.

Oh, how his son smiled at him. How his own heart swelled in his chest whenever his son would watch him at the wheel– _ “I wanna spin as good as you one day, papa.” _ And what a blessing it was, to tuck his son into his cot every night, to tell him he loved him, and be told he was loved in return–  _ “Goodnight, son. I love you.” “I love you too, papa.” _

When husband and wife exchanged those words, they never rang true. They gave him an empty, sickening feeling. Something akin to being in unbearable pain and assuring everyone you were fine because you didn't want to be a bother. But those same three words buzzed inside him around his boy. They filled him.  _ Poured _ out of him with every smile Bae gave him. Every laugh, every silly face. Every cry, every pout, and even every tantrum. 

Milah, over the years, had only grown further away from him. But Rumplestiltskin couldn't bring himself to mind it. They had their son, but in every other capacity it seemed the roles they played in each other's lives hardly existed anymore. He was perhaps glad of it in fact, when she began spending her nights at the tavern.

But then there was his son, coming to him with a familiar pain– a familiar worry he'd long since buried deep. 

_ “Where is mother?” _

_ “When is mum coming home?” _

_ “Papa, why is mother never here, at home, with us?” _

_ “Is she mad at us? ” _

Baelfire hadn't a single question Rumplestiltskin hadn't asked himself when he was a boy. Each one brought back that wilted feeling he'd get in his heart every time his own father dropped him off to stay with the spinsters. The feeling of being unwanted and uncared-for.

Was that his fault? Should he have died? Would his son have been better off without him after all? It was his own fault Milah was never home, was it not? 

But now she'd left. For good. The knot in his stomach seemed to loosen at the thought. She was gone. Gone, gone, gone. He'd never have to see her face, or share his bed, or utter those disingenuous words to her again.

But with the next step toward the hovel, the knot tightened again.

What would he tell Baelfire? That his fears had come true? That his mother didn't want them? That she'd rather be somewhere far, far away? That her contempt for her pathetic excuse for a husband outweighed her love for her son?

_ “Try the truth. His father's a coward.” _ That was what the pirate had told him. Just like everyone else had. His father. The people in his village. Milah. Rumplestiltskin had always hoped that one day, he'd find they were all wrong. That some other truth would present itself. But if another truth existed, he couldn't see it. Couldn't hear it. Only one truth prevailed, and it was  _ coward, coward, coward.  _

Rumplestiltskin felt the urge to cry. His chin quivered, and his eyes clenched shut to hold back the flow of tears. He really a sharp breath and word then away, collecting himself as best he could, before dragging his feet inside the hovel with his eyes cast on the floor.

“Papa?” His son asked. “When's Mama coming home?”

Rumplestiltskin tightened his grip on his staff and shook his head. If only he could deny Everything. Make it all go away. Start over. He drew a trembling breath and looked Baelfire in the eyes. “She isn't.”

The boy pouted and tilted his head. “Why not?”

His fault. His fault. Why couldn't he have just played his part and been a good husband? His son was going to be motherless and it was his fault. Milah was right. He should have fought. Died. His son would have been better off without him.

Rumplestiltskin knelt down before his son, where he sat waiting patiently, like the good boy that he was. A boy who had done nothing to deserve this fate. He still had his head cocked to the side and an expectant gleam in his eyes. A so, so, painfully familiar one– but he'd always had his Papa's eyes after all, hadn't he?

“Because she's dead, son.” Rumplestiltskin choked out, pulling him close. It was as much an act of comfort– for his son as well as himself– as it was an attempt to hide the lie as he told it. He let Baelfire cry on his shoulder, thinking that at the very least, it was one luxury his son would have that he never did.

_ A father's love. _

But maybe that would be enough.

Rumplestiltskin pressed a kiss to the crown of the boy's head and held him close, rubbing a hand over his back. “But I promise you,” he said, “I will never leave you.”


End file.
